


miscellany and sundries

by apostolosian (mercutioes)



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-02-02 17:11:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12730788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercutioes/pseuds/apostolosian
Summary: collected short fic from twitter





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> i'm gonna post these in batches of five or so

_Samot/Alyosha_

Tonight, when Alyosha dreams he ends up not in the forge nor lost in a memory of the approaching Grand Tour nor in the hazy recollections of the university but instead in a library larger than any he’s ever seen – shelves of books as far as he can see and farther and in the middle a wide table covered in tomes and maps and bottles of wine and one exhausted-looking god sitting in a wide armchair.

Samot doesn’t say a word – he doesn’t need to, Alyosha knows what to do.  He moves to Samot, climbs onto his lap and kisses him as gently as he can.  Samot smiles against his mouth – wan and tired but still sweet, still radiant.

They both grow wet as they kiss, moving against each other, but there’s no desperation or urgency – neither of them move to take things any further than this, just the soft movement of lips and hands combing through long blond hair.

When Alyosha wakes up, his lips still tingle from the god’s touch.

 

_Tabard/Hadrian_

Hadrian knows that Tabard is dead, knows that he killed him and escaped, and he doesn’t know if it’s Samot’s influence or his own mind’s twists and turns that leads him back to that moment, but it haunts his dreams more nights than not.

Tonight, he’s back in the tower, kneeling and surrounded by crumbling marble.

“You don’t have to make this difficult, paladin,” says Tabard, standing suddenly in front of him as if he’d always been there.  Hadrian says nothing – his lips won’t move, and he realizes with a start that he can’t move at _all_ , not even his eyes.  Tabard laughs, cold and bitter.

“It’s already too late,” he says.  He lifts a hand and Hadrian’s own arm moves without his permission to mirror Tabard.  He can see his skin now and it’s stone, it’s all _stone_ , and he wants to scream but he can’t, he can’t do anything that Tabard doesn’t permit and the realization sends a mixture of cold panic and reluctant arousal into the pit of his marble stomach.

Tabard crouches down to get at eye level, and Hadrian can feel the magnetism of his presence.

“We could win this together, Hadrian,” he says, and he’s so _close_.  “Just swear your loyalty and we could claim victory _tonight_.”

He allows Hadrian to move his mouth, but before Hadrian can say a word he wakes up in a cold sweat.  He spends the next hour trying to forget what his answer was about to be.

 

_Ephrim/Alyosha_

On nights when he can’t sleep, Ephrim asks Alyosha to read to him.  His voice is soft, soothing – its sweetness is effortless and Ephrim could listen to him read anything.

Tonight, though, Alyosha’s reading one of the more obscure texts of the Church – one that Ephrim hasn’t even heard about.  Alyosha explains that it’s apocryphal poetry, that he’s spent the past year translating it and is only halfway done, but he turns back the pages, picks a poem at random.  Ephrim settles in, rests his head on Alyosha’s thigh.

“Your kisses are like the best wine that goes down smoothly, gliding over lips and teeth,” he reads, voice low over the crackling of the fire in the grate.  “I am my beloved’s, and his desire is for me.”

Ephrim shivers at the words but he doesn’t interrupt.  Alyosha strokes over Ephrim’s hair in an absent gesture, fingertips skirting the shell of his ear, and he fights back a sigh.

“Let us go out early to the vineyards, and see whether the vines have budded,” he continues, nails gliding down the back of Ephrim’s neck and now he _does_ shudder, “whether the grape blossoms have opened and the pomegranates are in bloom. There I will give you my love.”

Ephrim sits up suddenly, throws an accusatory look at Alyosha who only grins at him.

“You did this on purpose,” he says, and Alyosha laughs.

“I’m only reciting the texts of our lord,” he chuckles, and Ephrim plucks the book out of his hand, presses him down to the ground and kisses him firm.  He swears he can almost taste wine on his tongue.

 

_Hella/Rosana_

The first thing Hella notices about the paladin is that she’s the only one in the party who’s taller than her.  The second thing she notices is that she’s _adorable_.

Rosana’s quiet but blunt, doesn’t try and shove the Creed of Samothes down her throat like other members of her order and has a sense of humor about the whole thing that the other priests could really benefit from.  Hella likes her immediately.

They make it through the tower on Eventide and back to Velas where Rosana’s husband is waiting, but before she goes home she invites Hella out for a drink – “to celebrate,” she says, and Hella’s never really been good at saying no to beautiful women.

They find a tavern that’s just grimy enough to be fun, still a party even this late into the night.  Once Rosana gets a couple of drinks in her, she flirts continuously, shooting Hella glances from under her lashes and putting her hand on Hella’s arm whenever she gets the chance and bumping their feet together under the table.  Hella’s just drunk enough to flush and flirt back, and when the night winds down, they stumble out into the back alleyway, laughing and leaning on each other.

Rosana loses her balance and catches herself on the wall, almost pinning Hella in the process.  Their mouths are inches away from each other and Hella licks her lips.

“Your husband –” she starts but Rosana cuts her off.

“We have an arrangement,” she says.  “Can I kiss you?”

Hella nods, whining into Rosana’s mouth when she leans in to meet her.  They both taste like alcohol and sweat and it’s _good_ , it’s better than Hella could imagine.  And when Rosana falls to her knees, eats her out right there in the alley, Hella’s moans could almost be mistaken for prayer.

 

_Hella/Adaire_

It goes like this: Adelaide leaves Hella bruised and shaking, on-edge and untouched at the door to Adaire’s room.  Adaire pulls her in, lays her down on the bed, strokes over her hair, her cheeks.  Hella reaches for her but Adaire shushes her, presses her hands down to the mattress, kind but firm.

“You’ve done enough, beautiful,” she murmurs, and Hella whines at that, bottom lip clenched tight between her teeth.  “Let me take care of you.”

She takes it slow, runs her lips over each of Hella’s fresh marks and bruises.  She doesn’t bite, just kisses the red, tender patches of skin and Hella sighs, moans under her.  Adaire laves her tongue over Hella’s nipple, works it to a stiff peak until Hella’s whining on every exhale.

“Shh, sweetheart,” she says, moving down and down until she’s at the apex of Hella’s thighs.  “I’m right here, I’ll take care of you.”

Hella sobs when Adaire finally runs her tongue up her slit, circles her clit and slides a finger into her cunt.  She doesn’t tease, doesn’t keep Hella on edge – she knows that Adelaide’s done enough of that for one night.  She guides Hella through one shuddering, dripping orgasm, then another and Hella’s sobbing in earnest now, unable to form words, reduced down to the sensations coursing through her limbs.  She’s oversensitive to the point of pain but she trusts Adaire implicitly, lets her work her up to a third peak.

“So beautiful,” whispers Adaire, gazing down at her as she shakes through her last orgasm.  Hella’s limbs feel like lead and she lets Adaire clean her off, spoon up behind her and hold her as she falls asleep, safe and sated and warm.


	2. two

_Hella/Adelaide_

“Still, Hella.”

Adelaide’s on her throne and Hella’s on her knees on the marble floor, full with one of Adelaide’s carved dildos inside her and hands bound haphazardly with a string of pearls from around Adelaide’s own neck.  Hella whines, tries her best not to shift but the dildo inside her is pressing up against her in an infuriating tease and it’s almost impossible not to squirm.

“I’ll let you have your hands back if you can be good,” continues Adelaide, “but you can’t seem to follow simple instructions.”

And this is what Adelaide _does_ , puts together impossible games and unwinnable scenarios and takes her pleasure in breaking Hella down until she’s a sobbing, shuddering mess.

Adelaide extends one bare foot, diaphanous silks sliding off her calf, and traces the edges of Hella’s cunt with her toe where she’s stretched tight around the dildo.  Hella sobs, clenches her fists, tries not to move and can’t help but shift her weight.  Adelaide grins, sharp.

“I said _still_ , Hella.”  Her toe migrates up, runs over Hella’s swollen clit and she has to _know_ what that feels like, that Hella can’t stay still with pleasure running through her veins like electricity but then again, that’s exactly what the Queen of Pearls wants.  She shivers, hard, and Adelaide sighs theatrically.

“What am I supposed to do with you?”

Hella waits in breathless anticipation for the answer.

 

_Ephrim/Alyosha_

The first time it happens, Alyosha’s got him on his back.  He’s been teasing Ephrim for what feels like hours, stretching every touch, every excruciating moment into an eternity.  Ephrim’s pent-up, out of control, and flames lick out of his mouth without his conscious permission.

Alyosha looks up at the smell of smoke, the hunger in his eyes intensifying at the fire dancing along Ephrim’s lips.  He grins, sharp.

“Must I gag you, too?”

Ephrim whines at that, hips bucking up but Alyosha’s holding him down, pressing him to the bed.  The priest hums, leaning over the side of the bed to snag the scarf he discarded earlier (luckily, not one of his nicer ones) and returning to lean over Ephrim, caging him in with his thin arms.  Alyosha kisses him deep, licking his mouth open before pulling back suddenly and guiding the scarf between his teeth before Ephrim can say a word.  Ephrim sags into the bed after Alyosha ties it behind his head, pliant and wanting.

“Good,” murmurs Alyosha, kissing his forehead.  “Now, try not to burn the inn down, please.”

It’s a tall order when Alyosha leans down to lick a long, smooth line up his wetness, teasing circles around his cock, and Ephrim cries, muffled, into the gag.  Flames escape at the corners of his mouth and smoke continues to rise above their heads, the room blurring in the haze.

Although the inn survives the bout of flames he releases when he comes shuddering against Alyosha’s tongue, the scarf certainly does not.

 

_Hella/Adaire_

_The best thing about Adaire_ , thinks Hella, in a breathless moment between blows, _is how_ creative _she is._

A pained, ecstatic groan escapes her lips as the flogger comes down on her back, harder than before.  Her skin is already on fire, and Adaire laughs at the way Hella shudders and pulls at the ropes around her wrists as she trails the leather coils gently down the length her spine.

“I mean, I knew you liked leather,” she muses, tracing the backs of Hella’s thighs where they’re tied to the body of her bike, “but if I’d known exactly how _much…_ well.”  The flogger trails feather-light over Hella’s cunt, and she’s _sure_ she’s dripping onto the seat.

It’s an uncomfortable position, stretched awkwardly and bound to her own damn motorcycle, but it’s worth it for the way it makes her feel exposed, _used_ , like a machine or a tool or a work of art – simply there for Adaire’s pleasure.

The flogger comes down again and again and again until Hella’s shaking non-stop, fists clenched around the handles of the bike.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” murmurs Adaire, stroking her fingers down Hella’s back, and she sobs at the cool contrast against the heat of her reddened skin.  “So good for me.”

She gets Hella off with her fingers, sloppy and sopping wet, and Hella’s almost afraid that the bike will tip over with how much she’s writhing, but Adaire’s tied her tight enough that there’s no way she’ll fall.  She comes hard, the scent of leather in her nose and Adaire’s soothing whispers in her ears.

 

_Samot/Hadrian/Ephrim_

Hadrian’s sure his eyes are wide enough to drop out of his skull at this point, but he can’t look _away_.

Samot’s got Ephrim by the hair, head pulled back to expose the long line of his throat, knelt on the bed with Samot pressed to his back.  It’s a position Ephrim’s had Hadrian in countless times, always with a haughty smile on his lips and a commanding fire in his eyes but like _this…_

“What do you think, paladin?” Samot says, amusement sweet like honey on his tongue.  “He’s quite pretty, isn’t he?”  He tightens his hand in Ephrim’s hair and Ephrim whines, high and breathy.

Hadrian’s mind has gone blank, wiped clean of all rational thought.  Ephrim’s almost unrecognizable like this, squirming when Samot trails fingertips down his chest, teasing circles around his nipples and along the crease of his hip.  It’s inconceivable to see Ephrim – his _prince_ , always in control – submit even a little bit, but it’s also mind-numbingly arousing.

“Come over here, Hadrian,” Samot says, twisting the hand in his hair so Ephrim has to turn to face Hadrian.  His lips are slack, eyes half-lidded and hazy.  “Don’t you want to taste him?”

Hadrian swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and he crawls across the wide bed to kneel in front of the two of them.  He looks to Samot for permission – this, at least, is still constant, even if everything else in his world has shifted.  Samot smiles, whip-sharp.

“Go on,” he purrs.

Hadrian sees him own submission reflected in Ephrim’s eyes as he leans in, and Samot’s hungry laughter sends chills down his spine as their lips meet.

 

_Sokrates/Jace_

“Y’know, I kind of expected you to have weird fish junk or something.”

Sokrates laughs, cheeks flushed and breath heavy.  They pull Jace in close, arm around his waist, his head on their chest.  The sweat is still cooling on their skin, a fine tremor in their limbs – they came just a minute ago with Jace’s mouth on their arousal, messy and wet.

“Nah,” they say, tracing abstract patterns on his hip.  “Just regular human junk, unfortunately.”

“I’m extremely disappointed,” Jace shoots back, leaning up to kiss them gently.  Sokrates hums into the kiss, tightening their grip on his hip and, after a moment, flipping them over so they’re hovering above Jace.  He’s suddenly reminded how _wet_ he is, clit untouched and swollen, and he clings to Sokrates, whining when they bite sharp at his lower lip.

Sokrates breaks the kiss, leaning down to kiss a slow, teasing trail down the line of Jace’s throat, his chest, his stomach.

“I don’t know,” they muse, punctuating each word with a searing press of lips, “I personally find human junk pretty exciting.”

They run their tongue up the seam of him and he keens – they’ll take that as an agreement.


	3. three

_Jace/Mako/Addax/Jamil_

“Glad you could join us.”

Jace grins at them from the couch where he’s got Mako pinned under him, fucking into him hard and fast.  Addax finds the presence of mind to shut the apartment door behind himself and Jamil, but just barely.  Jace’s rhythm doesn’t falter for a second.

“Fuck, _fuck_ , Jace,” gasps Mako, flush bright purple on his cheeks and lips bitten and swollen.

“Shh,” murmurs Jace, leaning down to run his teeth over a fresh hickey on Mako’s neck.  “You’re putting on such a good show for them.”

Jamil’s hand finds Addax’s, gripping clumsily – neither of them have moved, unable to tear their eyes away from the picture the two of them make.  Addax licks his lips, mouth dry.

“Look at them, Mako,” Jace orders softly.  Mako turns his head and forces his eyes open – they’re hazy with arousal and desperation, and he groans when he meets their gazes.  Jace grins, sharp.  “They _love_ watching you.”

“So pretty, sweetheart,” rasps Jamil, the first thing either of them have said since they walked in and, apparently, all it takes for Mako to tip over the edge, keening and clinging to Jace as he shakes apart.

Jace pulls out after a moment, wriggles out of the harness and drops the strap-on on the floor unceremoniously.  He winks at them, grinning.

“So how was work?” he says, and Mako shivers.

 

_Hella/Adelaide_

When Hella arrives in the throne room, Adelaide looks almost startled to see her standing there.  She’s not on her throne but sitting on the cold marble floor, hugging her knees to her chest.  There are tear tracks down her perfect cheeks and her hands are shaking, and Hella unconsciously takes a step back.  She’s not supposed to see her like this - Hella’s out of her element, wrong-footed and unsure.

“Shit,” says Adelaide, scrubbing at her eyes.  The word feels coarse in her perfect voice – too human, too _mortal_ for the Queen of Death.  She laughs, short and sharp.  “You weren’t supposed to be here.”

Hella doesn’t know what to say to that, but she takes an awkward step forward, then another, until she’s kneeling in front of Adelaide.  Hella’s hands are shaking, too, but she musters the courage to take Adelaide’s face in her hands, tilt her up to look Hella in the eyes.  She doesn’t know what Adelaide sees there, but she pulls Hella into a kiss, desperate and pliant all at once, yanking her so she’s lying down with Hella on top, forearms flat on the floor.  Adelaide breaks away, breath shaking.

“Please, just…”  She closes her eyes, can’t seem to finish her request, and something knots painfully in Hella’s chest at the sight of her so defeated.

So Hella kisses her again, and again, swallowing Adelaide’s broken sounds with gentle lips.  Adelaide doesn’t make a move to direct her or take control, even though Hella expects her to with every passing moment.  Instead, she just _lets_ Hella kiss her, lets Hella cage her in with her arms and run her hand down Adelaide’s thigh and _clings_ to Hella’s neck like she’s the only thing keeping Adelaide from unraveling completely.

Hella gets Adelaide off with her fingers, slow and gentle.  When she comes, Adelaide sobs into Hella’s mouth, shuddering and clinging.  When she’s done, she leans up to kiss Hella once, pouring every _thank you_ that she can’t bear to say out loud into that press of lips.

For once, Hella wakes up with sweetness on her tongue.

 

_Echo/Gig/Grand_

“Oh, he’s sensitive, huh?”

Grand moans as well as he can through the gag, shuddering, trapped between Echo at his back and Gig in front of him.  Echo hums in agreement, pulling Grand tighter against them by their grip on his hips.  Gig tweaks his nipple again, experimental, pulling another ragged noise out of Grand.

“Try your mouth,” says Echo.  “That drives him wild.”

Grand almost shouts, head tipping back onto Echo’s shoulder at the wet heat of Gig’s mouth on his chest, the sharp bite of teeth alternating with soothing strokes of his tongue.  Gig laughs against his skin and the vibrations make Grand shudder.

“You think he could come just from this?” asks Gig, grinning up at the both of them.  Echo makes a considering noise, biting at the juncture of Grand’s neck and shoulder.  Grand wants to protest, wants to beg them to touch his aching cock, but the gag stops his words in his throat.  It’s deliciously degrading, being talked about like he’s not there, like he’s nothing more than a toy that Echo and Gig are sharing.  He squirms on Echo’s lap.

“I bet he could,” replies Echo, dragging their nails, dark with chipped nail polish, up his thighs.  “Keep going, let’s see how much he can take.”

Gig doubles his efforts, teasing Grand’s nipples until they’re stiff and swollen and aching as much as his cock.  Grand’s panting, choked-off noises are muffled by the gag but still loud, still desperate.

“Oh, look at him,” says Echo, reaching up to stroke over his cheeks.  Grand startles when he realizes they’re _wet_.  “Should we be nice now?”  Gig hums in agreement, pulling at one of Grand’s nipples with his teeth.

Echo reaches around to wrap their hand around his cock and Grand yells, tears running down his cheeks and soaking the gag further.  He comes in what feels like seconds, pleasure running molten through his veins.  Gig and Echo help him come down slow, stroking over his arms and legs and face, wiping his tears away and whispering sweetly into his ear.

And even when Echo pulls the gag from between his teeth and Gig pulls the three of them horizontal, Grand finds that he’s perfectly happy staying quiet if it means that he gets to stay here, sandwiched between two warm bodies, sated and safe.

 

_Ephrim/Hadrian_

“Wine.”

Hadrian jolts from where he’s been kneeling at Ephrim’s side – the prince hasn’t spoken in long minutes and Hadrian’s sunk into that fuzzy place where it takes him a moment or two longer than it should to respond.  He stands creakily, moves to the table for the decanter of deep burgundy wine and pours a glass.  He brings it back over to Ephrim and waits for instruction.

“Kneel,” Ephrim says, lazy, and Hadrian does, careful not to spill a single drop with the motion.  Ephrim’s eyes are distant but warm like a banked fire.  He plucks the glass from Hadrian’s hands and takes a sip, steady gaze never leaving Hadrian’s own.  Hadrian licks his lips, mouth suddenly bone-dry, and Ephrim’s mouth quirks against the rim of the glass, promising.

“Would you like to taste?”  There’s a teasing twist in his voice, but Hadrian’s too enamored by the heat of his stare to really notice.  He nods, wordlessly, and starts to reach for the glass only for Ephrim to lean back with a sharp _tsk_.

“No,” he says, “like _this_.”

Hadrian watches rapt as Ephrim dips two fingers into the blood-red wine and brings them to Hadrian’s lips, fat droplets of liquid dripping from the tips of them like something obscene.  He smiles beatifically when Hadrian takes them in his mouth, like he’s offered Hadrian a divine gift.  Maybe he has – it certainly feels like benediction when Hadrian takes the delicate weight of Ephrim’s fingers onto his tongue, the bitter-sweet taste of the wine blossoming in his mouth.

“Good,” murmurs Ephrim, pulling his fingers away and dipping them in the glass again.  This time, he traces the shape of Hadrian’s lips, staining them wine-dark.  Hadrian has only a moment to inhale sharply before Ephrim leans in to lick the wine off his lips, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and biting down just to hear him whine.

Ephrim pulls back, satisfied smirk twisting his stained lips, and dips his fingers again, this time smearing the wine down the line of Hadrian’s throat.  Hadrian can only bite his lip and close his eyes as Ephrim leans in to follow the dripping trail down, down, _down._

 

_Samot/Hadrian_

It’s unclear where Hadrian’s running to or where he’s coming from or how he even knows where he’s going, but he runs all the same, shadow-dark trees blurring in his peripheral vision and fear pumping cold through his veins.  There’s a noise echoing through the woods, a shimmering note that vacillates between the triumphant laugh of a man and the piercing howl of a wolf.  It itches at Hadrian’s mind, spurs him on faster, though whether it incites fear or excitement he doesn’t know – sometimes, it’s impossible to tell the difference.

Suddenly, it’s closer, closer, catching up to him until he swears the laugh echoes right in his ear.  His muscles ache, his lungs burn, his breath comes fast and heavy and still he can’t outrun it, can’t outpace it, and he’s falling, _falling –_

There’s a heavy weight on his chest and as he looks up with wide eyes there’s a split second where he’s pinned under a wolf and a boy all at once before the image settles into Samot, and of _course_ it’s Samot, who else could set a chill and a fire in his belly all at once, the contradiction of it smoothing and folding in the space of this dream and –

“Stop thinking so much, paladin,” says Samot, smiling with all his teeth.  “You can’t outthink me, and you can’t outrun me.”  He leans down until they’re almost touching, so Hadrian can feel the cool warmth of his breath on his lips and the burning ice of his violet eyes and he can’t _breathe._

Samot leans down, take his bottom lip into his mouth and bites with teeth far too sharp and in the same moment Hadrian can feel the wolf’s sharp teeth tear into the flesh of his throat, blood spilling warm into the cool night, both somehow true at the same time, pain and arousal twisting into a seamless whole as Samot devours him two ways at once, long moments stretching under the cool light of the moon until he wakes with a start, soaked in sweat.

His hand jumps to his throat but all he finds is his cooling sweat and skin broken only by the line of the chain around his neck.

 

_Alyosha/Ephrim_

“You’re thinking too much,” murmurs Alyosha into the soft skin at the nape of Ephrim’s neck.  Ephrim’s tense in his arms, the line of his back far too straight against Alyosha’s front.  “Relax.”  Ephrim snorts.

“You know I can’t do that,” he says, and Alyosha wants to kiss the bitterness in his voice away.  He settles for pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.

“What if I _made_ you stop thinking,” he says.  Ephrim starts to roll over to look at him but Alyosha grips him tighter, keeps him facing away from Alyosha.  A small, weak sound escapes Ephrim’s lips, and Alyosha presses lips to the corner of his jaw, an idea taking shape in his mind.  “Stay there,” he whispers and leans over the side of the bed to snag the scarves that they shed when they arrived in the inn.

He tugs Ephrim’s hands behind his back, binds them with a loose knot.  Ephrim doesn’t resist, mouth falling open in surprise.  Alyosha wraps the second scarf around Ephrim’s eyes, tying it at the back of his head.  His fingers twitch at the small of his back but he doesn’t make a sound.  Alyosha spoons up against him again.

“Just focus on me,” Alyosha murmurs, pressing kisses along the back of his neck, gentling fingers down the taut line of Ephrim’s stomach.  “Nothing else exists, just us.”

Alyosha takes his time, exploring every inch of Ephrim’s body with lips and hands, unhurried and careful.  Ephrim usually likes to go fast and rough, a desperate rush to finish but now he has no choice but to let Alyosha figure out what makes him sigh, how to stroke just right at the crease of his thigh to make him twitch and whine, how he best likes his throat kissed, slow and wet.  Ephrim’s cock strains against his stomach, untouched save for the occasional stroke of Alyosha’s fingertips up the length of him.

“ _Please_ ,” he gasps, eventually, after what feels like hours of soft touch.  His mind is hazy, narrowing to the burning of his skin, trying to guess where Alyosha will touch next and rarely getting it right.

“Shh, of course,” Alyosha murmurs, finally taking hold of Ephrim’s cock and stroking firm.  “You’re doing so well.”

Ephrim’s toes curl, body high-strung and rushing headlong toward a white-hot peak.  His mind is blank, the world narrowed to Alyosha’s touch, chasing his pleasure in the darkness, unable to do anything but lie there in Alyosha’s arms and _take it_.

“Come on, love,” Alyosha whispers.  “Come for me.”

When he does spill over Alyosha’s fingers, his mind is blessedly, perfectly quiet.


	4. four

_Rosana/Hadrian/Alyosha_

Rosana knows she’s done her job right when Alyosha’s hair is fully out of his braid and spread out in waves on their pillow, tangling slightly as he tosses his head back and forth.  He’s already come twice but she knows from experience that he still has one or two more climaxes in him before he’s done.

Hadrian pauses, looks up from between his legs.  His face smeared with slick and there’s a flush burning bright in the apples of his cheeks.  Alyosha groans, manages a few mumbled words and Rosana _tsks._

“Did I say you could stop?” she says, threading a hand into Hadrian’s hair and gripping tight.  “You’re not done until he can’t talk anymore, and he’s still talking.”

She shoves Hadrian’s face back into Alyosha’s cunt, biting her lip at the obscene sound Alyosha makes.  His eyes are so bright and wide without his glasses and strands of golden hair fall around his face, catching in the glossy slickness of his swollen mouth.  He’s too tempting to resist so Rosana doesn’t, leaning in to catch his mouth with her own, kissing him deep and slow.  He whines into her mouth, the vibrations buzzing along her lips.

He clutches her when he comes, thighs pressing against Hadrian’s head and back arching off the mattress.  Hadrian makes to pull away but Rosana keeps him pressed against Alyosha until he reaches a quick second peak, more of an aftershock than anything but it still makes him scream in the back of his throat and scratch lines down the length of Rosana’s back, eyes screwed shut.

“You good, honey?” she asks, leaning down to kiss Alyosha’s cheek, the corner of his mouth.  He doesn’t answer in words, just turns his head to catch her lips, still whining on every exhale.  She grins, pulling back.

“ _Now_ you’re done,” she tells Hadrian, yanking him up by the hair for a kiss.  She can taste Alyosha on his tongue.

 

 

_Rosana/Hadrian/Alyosha_

During the day, Rosana calls him "dear" and "sweetheart" and Alyosha calls him "love" and "darling" but in the depths of the night when Velas is asleep and the twin moons illuminate their bedroom in an unearthly glow, those words twist and transform.

"You love this," whispers Alyosha in his ear, stroking down his spine as he swallows her down further into his throat. "Can't get enough of her." Hadrian shudders, toes curling when Alyosha's fingers graze the cleft of his ass. Alyosha laughs quietly. " _Sl_ _ut_."

Alyosha's not naturally this mean but when it's asked of him, he plays the part surprisingly well. Filth spills from his lips as easily as the Creed itself, and Hadrian sobs around Rosana at the word. Her hand tightens in his hair, her gasps high and thin as she nears her peak.

Hadrian can't help but thrust against the mattress, desperate for some relief, but Alyosha digs nails into his hips and leans down to whisper in his ear, hair brushing Hadrian's shoulder blades feather-light.

"Whore," he murmurs, the word coarse and rough in his sweet lilting voice, and the wrongness of it sends burning shame and arousal into the pit of Hadrian's gut. It's _perfect_.

And then Rosana's coming down his throat and Alyosha's murmuring in his ear about how shameful and obscene he looks, what a slut he must be to get off on sucking her, and it's just another thrust, two before Hadrian's coming as well, spilling onto the sheets with Rosana still in his mouth and Alyosha pressed along his back.

 

_Red Jack/Samothes/Samot_

"He likes a hand on his neck." Samot's voice is conversational, casual - seemingly unaffected, though Samothes can picture the tenting of his robes.

"Does he, now?" murmurs Red Jack, the ever-present edge of laughter in his low, warm voice.

Samothes wants to reply, wants to say _something_ but all his words are lost in a ragged cry when Red Jack fucks into him harder, wraps a hand around his throat - not squeezing, not yet, just _present_ , huge and calloused and searing warm like the rest of him.

He clenches around Red Jack, and the oni chuckles, other hand squeezing at his hip until he knows he'll have bruises. Samot makes a pleased sound.

"You take him so well, husband," he says, and Samothes bites down on a whine. He's so _full_ , fuller than he can ever remember being before, and he aches with it - the unfamiliar sensation of feeling _small_ , tiny and weak and overpowered by Red Jack's sheer bulk and force, and that's what pushes him over the edge, coming for the both of them with a sob, Samot’s eyes sharp on his face and Red Jack chuckling in his ear.

 

_Rosana/Hadrian/Alyosha_

Alyosha could tease him for hours, days on end, can't get enough of the way he can push Hadrian past words, past moaning to breathy whining with lips and tongue alone.

He bobs, pulls Hadrian into the back of his throat and holds him there for a long hot moment before he pulls back completely, biting a new mark into his inner thigh. Hadrian’s close, has been close for a while, and Alyosha can feel the shiver in his thighs.

"Come on, he's had enough." Rosana’s voice is rough, sleepy - she came long minutes ago, has been watching them with hooded eyes. Alyosha pouts.

"He can take more," he says, and Hadrian whines high and thin, fisting the sheets tighter. Alyosha presses soft lips to the base of Hadrian’s cock.

"Alyosha," she says, the warning in her tone clear enough.

"Fine," he replies and takes Hadrian into his throat again, not relenting until he's spilling into Alyosha’s mouth.

"You're going to kill me," Hadrian pants when he's recovered enough, and Alyosha laughs quietly before leaning up for a long kiss.


	5. five

_Adelaide/Hella_

She's sitting at Adelaide's feet tonight, legs curled under her while the queen strokes long nails through her hair from her perch on the settee.  
  
"That paladin of yours carries a ring, doesn't he," she asks, and Hella nods. Adelaide makes a considering noise. "Perhaps Samothes has the right idea. Head back."  
  
Hella tilts her head back without a second thought and Adelaide removes a leather band from around her wrist. In her hands, it widens and stretches and she wraps it around Hella's throat. It clasps at the front with a pearl set into engraved metal - it settles cool at the hollow of Hella's throat and she swallows hard.  
  
"There," Adelaide murmurs, guiding Hella to shuffle over so she's kneeling between Adelaide's legs. "Much better." Her smile grows sharp and Hella's stomach clenches. "All mine."  
  
Hella whines and Adelaide laughs with a mocking edge and pulls her in by the collar.

 

_Hadrian/Alyosha/Rosana_

"You certainly know how to treat a guest..." comes Alyosha's laughing voice before it trails into a low, gasping moan.

"You're hardly a guest," replies Rosana, strained and breathy. Hadrian peeks in the semi-open door - they must not have heard him come home - and the sight punches the breath out of his chest.

Rosana's got Alyosha's hands tied above his head, fucking into him rough and fast. There will be rope-marks on his wrists tomorrow - Hadrian knows from experience that Alyosha bruises like a peach.

"Rosana, please, _please,”_ Alyosha breathes, flush high on his cheeks and eyes squeezed shut. Rosana's hips snap sharper, faster, and they're both groaning and climbing and coming and Hadrian's knees go weak - he sags against the doorframe.

"Are you finally going to join us," Rosana says, and Hadrian startles and stumbles into the bedroom, half-hard and cheeks burning, and despite his position, Alyosha's laugh is _delighted._

 

_Samot/Samothes_

"Now, how are you making it do that?"

"If I told you, that would ruin all – _ah!_  All the fun."

"Well," Samot replies, removing the dildo from Samothes' cock, the lacquered wood buzzing strangely in Samot's hand, "can it go any faster?"

Samot strokes the toy up the line of Samothes' stomach, up to circle around his nipples. Samothes reaches up, does _something_ inscrutable to an etching near the base of the dildo and the vibrations ramp up.  Samothes gasps and then almost yells when it's suddenly back on his cock, pressing insistent and gloriously intense.

"Oh, you _like_ that," Samot says, grinning his sharp grin. He tilts it down so it's not directly on Samothes’ cock but just below, just enough to keep him on edge.  "Anything else you can make it do?"  Samothes reaches down with a shaking hand and fiddles with what Samot assumes are the controls and then the dildo is pulsating in unpredictable patterns, slow and then suddenly skin-numbingly high.  Samot smiles even sharper and Samothes squeezes his eyes shut - he knows what that smile means.

What it means is that Samot figures out the controls and proceeds to tease Samothes with it for what feels like hours, keeping him on edge until he's almost-sobbing, until Samot flicks it up to the highest setting and keeps it on his cock until he's coming so hard he swears the world goes dark and the only thing grounding him is Samot's hand at the small of his back.

 

_Samot/Ephrim/Hadrian_

"Bite him, right on his jaw," Samot says. "He loved it when I bit him there."  
  
Ephrim looks at him from his perch atop Hadrian, expression almost disbelieving, and Samot laughs.

"What, you thought your lord was always in control?" Samot grins, all sharp teeth. "Oh, he _loved_ bowing to me. Now, _bite him_."  
  
Ephrim does, white flash of teeth against the brown of Hadrian's skin and the paladin arches up, groaning at the pleasure-pain of it.  
  
"Put a hand around his throat," Samot continues, guiding Ephrim's fingers to curl around Hadrian's neck. "That's when he would _really_ give himself over to me." He laughs again when Hadrian groans louder, low and rough. Ephrim looks just as affected, biting his lip, eyes trained on Hadrian's slack lips. "It seems you two have much in common."  
  
Samot guides them, recounts the way that Samothes liked nails raked down his inner thighs, how he liked to be held down by the hips, how he liked his nipples teased and his collarbone marked up with delightful red-purple bruises.  
  
Hadrian's far-gone now, panting and groaning, and Ephrim's losing composure fast, especially when Samot puts a steady but firm hand on the back of Ephrim's neck.  
  
"Now make him come, prince, just like I did."  
  
Hadrian arches up into Ephrim's hand around his cock, crying out as he comes across his own torso, and Samot's grin sharpens as he focuses in on the sight of Ephrim's pale hand on Hadrian's dark torso and remembers, remembers, _remembers._


	6. six

_Samot/Samothes_

Samothes is blindfolded - partially because he saw how Samot’s shoulders tensed for just a moment when he asked for this and partially because it was _exciting,_ the trembling anticipation of waiting in the dark for Samot’s touch and -- _oh._

The first tentacle is gentle, cool, smooth up the line of Samothes' stomach, over his throat, down his shoulder to the thin skin on the inside of his wrist before it closes around one wrist and then the other, then his ankles, then there's one around his _throat_ and Samothes can't help but whine, writhing when one teases at his nipples and another at the tip of his cock and another at his entrance, not breaching him, just the infuriating, intoxicating suggestion that if Samot wanted he could fuck Samothes just like this and Samothes couldn't do a _thing_ about it and that's what sends him over the edge, squirming in Samot’s grip.

 

 _Castille/Maelgwyn_  
  
To Castille, she's moving with barely any force at all, but with every blow Maelgwyn writhes over her lap, hands clenching in the sheets and feet kicking out. She's sure that the fabric of her skirt is rough against his cock but he doesn't seem to mind as he squirms and grinds down onto her.

The paddle's turning his ass and thighs a beautiful scarlet underneath the warm brown -- she'd like to use her hand but she's worried that she'd hurt him too much, the stone too blunt and heavy an instrument for this, so the paddle it is, simple and wooden.

"Castille, Castille, _please_ ," he groans, crying out as she hits him again, twice in quick succession at the tender place where his thighs meet his ass.

"You still have eight to go, Maelgwyn," she says, keeping her voice firm and steady. She wishes desperately she could kiss the marks she's making, but she contents herself with running a cool stone finger along his spine, down over the raised welts. He sobs into the mattress, muscles tensing and relaxing as he waits with breathless anticipation for the impending strike.

The next five blows come fast and sharp, all down the backs of his thighs.

"Three to go," she says. "Ask me for them."

"Castille, I can't --"

"Maelgwyn," she says, and the steel in her voice makes him go very, very still.

"Please hit me," he manages, voice small. His cry is ragged when it lands, the crack ringing obscene in the air.

"Again."

"Please,  _please_ \--" Another strangled sob when this one lands even harder. She doesn't have to ask again, he's begging incoherently for the last blow, _please, Castille, please, give me another, please--_

The last blow is the most satisfying of all as Maelgwyn cries out, grinds down against her for a long hot moment and comes hard, just from rutting down against her skirt. She smiles, runs a hand down his spine again, takes her satisfaction in his shuddering breaths under her fingertips.

 

_Alyosha/Hadrian/Rosana_

"Keep reading."

"I -- I slept, but my heart was awake." Hadrian's fingers clench on the edges of the book and Rosana's grin sharpens. "My beloved put his hand to the -- to the latch, and m-my heart was thrilled within me, _I can't, please_ \--"

"Keep _reading_ , Hadrian," Rosana orders, firm and implacable. They're seated across from each other -- if anyone were to walk in, all they'd see is a devoted disciple of Samothes and his wife, praying.

But Alyosha's lips and tongue are clever, and Hadrian's never had a great poker face.

"I arose to open to my belo-- beloved, and my hands dripped with myrrh, my fingers with -- my fingers... _oh..._ "

He's close now, shuddering, eyes slipping shut of their own volition and tiny gasps escaping his lips. Alyosha's tongue is hot and quick on him, his throat warm and open, and Hadrian can't focus on anything beyond the pleasure building in his gut and Alyosha's hands on his thighs and Rosana's sharp gaze on his face as he comes with a bitten-back groan.

Alyosha emerges from under the table, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"You know," he says, too conversational while Hadrian's still panting, red-faced, "I've always had a lot of fondness for that bit. Certainly the dirtiest of the passages."

Rosana laughs fondly as Hadrian pulls him into a desperate kiss.

 

_Samot/Samothes_

Samot’s been away for a year, perhaps even longer.  He has domains of his own to watch over, after all, and Samothes cannot keep him from them no matter how much he misses his husband in the days they're apart. Samot’s been the wolf for most of this stretch of time and when he arrives back in the City, back to Samothes' arms, his skin feels _new_ again, as sensitive and raw as the first time.

When Samothes brings their lips together Samot gasps, soft and pretty.  And when Samothes takes him to bed, Samot whines and writhes and tosses his head at the slightest touch, every strange, messy, _mortal_ sensation magnified a thousand-fold -- the callouses of Samothes' palms, the teasing brush of his hair as he kisses down Samot’s stomach, all of it feel like searing fire on his skin.  It makes Samot sob and dig nails into Samothes' shoulders as his husband takes him apart like the very first time they paid each other worship in this bed.


	7. seven

_ Arrell/(Ghost) Alyosha _

There's a brush down his arm, a cool breeze down his neck, phantom fingers on his calf and along the line of his stomach. Arrell shivers and tries to ignore it as best he can -- he knows that if he acknowledges it, then Alyosha's won.

"Come to bed, Tutor." There are lips at his ear, down his neck and then, gone. Arrell closes his eyes to steady himself, taking a long breath.

"I have work to do," he says into the empty air of his study. "Later."

"You know," replies Alyosha, materializing suddenly, perched on the edge of Arrell's desk, "I don't think you'd ever rest if I didn't make you."

"Alyosha," he says, warning in his tone. "It is  _vital_ that I finish this --"

"Of course! I'd never keep you from your work," interrupts Alyosha, "just... pretend I'm not here." He disappears and Arrell relaxes back into his seat, trying to find where he'd left off in his book.

He jumps when there are suddenly insubstantial lips on his cock and spectral hands crawling up his thighs and when he looks down there's nothing there even though he can  _feel_ \--

"Alyosha..." It's meant to be a reproach but it comes out as more of a choked plea as Alyosha smiles and hums around his dick. It's incredibly strange, getting sucked off by what appears to be empty air, but Alyosha's warm mouth feels as real as anything. He grips the edge of his desk -- he can't very well grab at Alyosha's hair or his shoulders to ground himself. It's not long at all until Alyosha's coaxed him through his peak, robes wet and soiled from his release, and re-manifests himself on Arrell's lap, grinning smugly.

" _Now_ will you come to bed, Tutor?" he asks, and Arrell groans.

 

_ Castille/Maelgwyn _

There are places in Marielda that most people don't know about, but one of the Hitchcocks tells her about this one - a place where you can go to make your fantasies real and material with a willing partner or two or three.

And that's where Castille takes Maelgwyn one night, all done up in a collar and his hair falling loose around his face. The club is tucked away between storefronts, hidden just enough, and the inside is dim but inviting. Plush furniture is scattered around the main room and doors line the walls, leading to private rooms. There are people draped over furniture, alone or in twos or threes and in varying states of undress. Some are clearly fucking but some just watch with hungry eyes. Maelgwyn shivers beside her and she grins.

She situates herself on one of the plush couches, guides Maelgwyn to kneel at her feet. She lets herself relax, her posture communicating that her pet is available, and it's not long before someone approaches them.

"His mouth free?" the person asks, running a hand over Maelgwyn's hair and down to thumb over his lower lip. He shudders, eyes fluttering shut, and the person laughs.

"Go ahead," says Castille, recrossing her legs and leaning back to watch as the person takes Maelgwyn's mouth, fucking in steady and rough.

Over the course of the night, there are many more - some take his mouth and some take his cunt and some come in pairs and take both at the same time. A few of them flip him over onto his back and eat him out as Castille watches from her seat.

By the end of the night, he's wrecked and messy, come in his hair and streaking his face and chest and stomach, slick all down his thighs and a sheen of sweat all over his body. He's trembling as a woman fucks him on three fingers and pulls his hair and slaps his ass and he comes, clenching and sobbing. The woman pulls out, standing.

"He's something," she says to Castille, and Castille smiles, demure.

"He is," she agrees. She leans forward to tug at Maelgwyn's collar. "Come up here, pet."

She settles Maelgwyn on her lap, reaches under him to stroke over his raw, abused cunt. He sobs, the tears in his eyes finally spilling over.

"Cas-- Castille, I can't--"

"Shh," she soothes, stroking steadily at his oversensitive cock. "Your last one is mine."

He comes, crying, on her fingers. She smiles, satisfied.

 

_ Rosana/Hadrian/Alyosha _

There's a moment where Hadrian wants to be petulant and say that it's not _fair_ , the way they always gang up on him, but all three of them know the truth of how much he loves it.

Hadrian's kneeling on the bed, wrists bound together and, in turn, connected to the collar at his throat -- simple leather that bites deliciously into the thin skin there. Alyosha checks the knots again, runs a finger along the line of the collar to make sure it's just tight enough. Last, his wrists get lashed to the bedpost, pulling the line between his collar and his wrists taut, and the breath goes out of him at the realization that every movement he makes pulls the collar tighter against his throat. Alyosha steps back to survey the scene.

"You've outdone yourself," says Rosana, naked hunger in her tone. Alyosha laughs, sweet and clear.

"Thank you." He steps closer, runs a hand down Hadrian's spine. Hadrian tries to stay still but he can't help but squirm, just a little, and it tugs at the collar. "Now, what should I do with him?" Rosana hums, considering.

"Well,  _look_ at him. Practically begging for someone to tan him." Hadrian shudders and Alyosha laughs again, indulgent, sliding his hand over Hadrian's ass.

"You're right, as always. May I?" Hadrian bites his lip against a whimper, shifting and feeling the bite of the collar. Rosana is strong and steady, has the stamina to beat him for  _hours_ if she wanted, but Alyosha's crafty by necessity and nature. He gets creative, anticipation stinging as much as any blow.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Rosana select a thin, whippy switch. It's one that _stings_ , leaves long, thin welts wherever it lands.

"Give him thirty," she commands, voice rasping and low. "And if he's good, he'll get to come."

Hadrian shudders as Alyosha runs the switch down his spine, up the backs of his thighs.

"Do you mind keeping count for me?" Alyosha asks mildly as he brings the switch down across Hadrian's ass. He sucks in air between his teeth, jerking forward instinctively and whining at the way his movement makes the collar cut into his throat.

"With pleasure," says Rosana, grin apparent in her voice. "That's one."

 

_ Samot/Samothes _

They have time, endless time, and sometimes they'll play like this -- vicious and feral like they're back at the beginning of the world, the time when they were raw and new and wild.

Samothes runs through the woods, bare feet pounding on the moss and sweat shining on his bare chest and hair tangled beyond repair and Samot close on his heels. He's in his boy form but he still has the powerful, loping stride of the wolf in his legs, its snarl in the rictus curve of his lips.

The trees flash by around them and they're both laughing, laughing, the exhilaration of the chase bright and sparkling like ichor in their veins. Then a collision, a warm weight on his back and the soft moss on his stomach and Samots delighted laugh in his ears.

"Well, well," Samot purrs, leaning down to speak in his ear. His breath is warm and it makes Samothes shiver. "What am I to do with you?"

"Whatever you like, I suppose," Samothes replies, bravado hiding the breathless anticipation in his voice. Samot laughs again and then, quick as anything, he tears Samothes' thin trousers off, tends them in two and binds his wrists at the small of his back. Samothes gasps, ragged, when Samot yanks him up by the hips, supported only by his knees on the ground and his chest and cheek pressing into the moss, obscene and degrading and delicious.

"I think perhaps you wanted to be caught," Samot taunts, thumbing through Samothes' wetness. Samothes laugh-groans, presses himself back into Samot's grip.

"Maybe I did," he breathes, shifting restlessly in his makeshift bonds. "Now, _fuck me_."

Samot grins with all his teeth and does just that.


	8. eight

_Hella/Adaire_

Adaire’s hand is small, much smaller than Hella’s, but it feels as big as anything when Adaire tucks her fourth finger into Hella’s cunt. Her skin stretches, stings, and Hella sobs, fingers scrabbling at Adaire’s back. Her inner thighs are dripping with lube and her own slick, a thin sheen of sweat over her whole body. Adaire kisses her quiet, soft lips soothing on her own.

“Shh, Hella, just one more, you can take one more.”

The effort is herculean but Adaire flexes the four fingers she already has in her and somehow,  _somehow_ manages to slip her thumb in with the rest and she’s pushing, pushing, pushing past the resistance and Hella’s sure she’s going to split apart, to rend in two but she trusts Adaire, trusts her to keep her safe and whole and, and –

And then Adaire’s whole fist is inside her, the outer lips of Hella’s cunt clenching around her wrist and so full and feeling both fragile and powerful at the same time. Adaire laughs, breathy and impressed.

“Wow,” she says, flexing her fingers experimentally and Hella wants to fold in two, crying out and digging nails into Adaire’s back. The feeling intensifies when Adaire pulls out and thrusts back in, just a little bit, almost nothing but Hella groans all the same.

Adaire fucks her and fucks her, splits her apart and makes her come twice with her fist inside her and a finger or two on her clit, whispering how well she's doing, how good she's being, how amazing she is to take so much of Adaire so well.

And after, Adaire pulls out slowly and wipes the mess from Hella's thighs and kisses her eyelids and holds her close until she stops trembling.

 

_ Jace/Addax _

Jace needs this sometimes. Usually he's all energy, playful and teasing, the unstoppable force to Addax's immovable object. But sometimes, just sometimes, Jace needs to feel _still._  


So Addax pushes him down into the pilot's chair of his mech, lashes his wrists to the headrest and his ankles to the slats of the metal floor, elbows bent and legs spread. He sits back on his heels, looks Jace up and down, takes in his flushed cheeks and blown pupils, the way his fingers curl restlessly around the curve of the chair's headrest. Satisfied, Addax goes to work.

The first orgasm he gets out of the way fast, mouth on Jace's nipples and thumb on his cock, and Jace is still in his head enough to be loud and squirmy as he comes.

The second time, Addax takes his sweet time with his mouth on Jace's cunt, teasing with teeth at his inner thighs and tongue circling his cock only to dart away before he can really sink into the feeling. Jace is panting, hands clenching and toes curling and half-coherent pleas falling from his slack lips. Addax finally lets him come, suction on his cock and nails dragging down Jace's thighs and this time Jace whines as he comes, high and sweet and helpless.

The third is the most difficult but, Addax thinks, definitely the most satisfying. He works Jace up again with his tongue on his cock, almost no reprieve from his last orgasm, and this time he slips two fingers into Jace's dripping cunt. Jace's thighs are shaking on either side of his head, and he looks up to see Jace's eyes screwed shut, the glint of tears on his cheeks and his mouth completely slack. He's finally gone quiet, the only sound an involuntary whine on every exhale. Addax curls his fingers, sucks hard on Jace's cock and though it seems impossible, Jace shakes and shakes and shakes apart.

Addax leans back when he's stopped shuddering so much, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. There's a gentle grin on Jace's face, eyes red-rimmed but fond.

"Damn, babe," he says, voice rasping and hoarse from shouting. Addax presses a kiss to his knee, equally fond, and Jace laughs gently. "Now get up here so I can return the favor."

 

_ Lem/Emmanuel _

It starts, as these things often do, completely innocuously.

Emmanuel is in the kitchen and Lem's leaning on the counter and he says something smarmy and Emmanuel smacks him on the thigh with the back of the wooden spoon he's holding.

Lem laughs but it's a second too slow and too late and Emmanuel catches a flush in Lem's cheeks.

Huh. Now this, this he can work with.

And what a pretty picture he makes bent over Emmanuel's bed, ass flushed a dark olive green and a tantalizing whining coming from his throat. Emmanuel's hand stings but he brings it down again, and again, and Lem writhes and moans and Emmanuel grins.

 

_ Lem/Hella/Fero _

He's never felt smaller than in this moment, practically choking on Lem as Hella pounds into his cunt with the glass cock she's strapped to her hips. Lem is gentle by nature bit Hella's pace is brutal, relentless, and she forces him deeper onto Lem's cock with every thrust.

He's wet down his thighs, can feel himself dripping around Hella's cock, his own dick aching  _desperately_ but that's nothing compared to the way it feels when Lem pulls on his hair and runs a thick thumb over his taut lips and Hella grips his thighs tighter as she pounds into him.

Her hands can  _almost_ wrap around his thighs.

Lem spends himself in Fero's mouth, hair gripped tight, and at the same time, Hella reaches around and circles his cock with one huge calluses finger and he's coming so hard he can't breathe, so full and overwhelmed and _small, so small oh god_ \--

He'll be covered in handprints tomorrow and his throat will be raw and his cunt aching all day but it's so completely worth it.

 

_Alyosha/Ephrim/Maelgwyn_

Maelgwyn's growing his hair out -- it's blond again, long and falling around his face in long, loose curls. It grows with the arrival of spring, Maelgwyn's gaunt face filling into its proper roundness and his smile showing itself more often every day.

Alyosha discovers them on the bed one day, looking freshly-bathed with Ephrim twisting Maelgwyn's hair into a fishtail braid that hangs down the line of his back. Alyosha smiles. He can't help but step towards them and pull Maelgwyn into a gentle kiss. It's easy as breathing for Ephrim to notice Alyosha deepening their kiss and he tugs on Maelgwyn's braid to hear him gasp. The positioning is already perfect, Ephrim holding Maelgwyn in his lap and leaning back against the pillows. He spreads Maelgwyn's thighs to let Alyosha slot in between them, to mouth over his arousal through his loose pants. Maelgwyn's answering groan is ragged, pleading. Ephrim can feel the tremble in his thighs as he tries to close them instinctively, but he keeps his grip firm as Alyosha keeps teasing at him through the thin fabric. It's not long before he's flushed and pliant, halfway to begging.

Ephrim lets him go long enough for the three of them to get Maelgwyn's pants off but then Ephrim's hands are back on his inner thighs, keeping his arousal exposed and holding him steady as Alyosha leans in to lick a slow trail over Maelgwyn's slit, up to circle around his cock the way they all know he likes. It's familiar, easy as anything, a dance they've perfected over these springtime months. Maelgwyn comes shaking on Alyosha's tongue, head tossed back onto Ephrim's shoulder. He's trusting now in a way he hadn't been allowed in a long time, and Ephrim smiles at the fact that he'll let the two of them see the long stretch of his vulnerable throat as he chases his pleasure in Alyosha's lips.

They lay together, after, in the warm spring sun, quiet.


	9. nine

_Alyosha/Arrell_

"Alyosha, _Alyosha, oh_ \--"

Arrell shudders through his climax, squirming when Alyosha keeps stroking at him after, over-sensitive and trembling and too-much. He relents with a laugh, kind and amused, shifting his fingers from Arrell's cock to circle his cunt. The energy of the spell hums beneath Alyosha's skin, the pads of his fingers vibrating with a gentle warmth.

"If you didn't want me to abuse its power, Tutor, you never should have taught me the spell," Alyosha says, bending to kiss at Arrell's breastbone, the line of his throat, over the blooming red marks he left earlier. Arrell's still breathing hard, still too fucked-out to do much more than lay there and revel in the feeling of Alyosha's lips on his skin, trailing down to tease a nipple, his still-humming fingers tracing patterns along his inner thighs. His hips twitch when Alyosha brushes along his cunt, teasing circles closer and closer to his cock, red and swollen and still aching. Arrell realizes what Alyosha means to do, scrabbles weakly at Alyosha's hair with one shaking hand as his pupil presses his buzzing thumb just barely into his opening.

"No, Alyosha, I can't --"

"Do you really want me to stop?" Alyosha's fingers almost leave entirely, just barely brushing his cock, and Arrell sobs -- the pleasure verges on pain but they both know that he can push through it, can find that peak again. The words spill out of Arrell almost without thought: "Please, please, don't stop, I need --"

"Shh, Tutor," Alyosha murmurs, bending to kiss him quiet. "You're being so good, that's it, just breathe for me." He traces circles around Arrell's cock, keeps his thumb just barely inside him and the spell hums across Arrell's skin, taking him higher until he's writhing again, clutching at whatever's within reach -- the sheets, the pillow, Alyosha's fine, fine hair.

He comes again, toes curling and back arched like a bow pulled taut, more pleasure than he can take coursing through his limbs. Alyosha's name is incomplete on his lips, trailing into a high, thin gasp as he shakes apart.

Alyosha finally relents, dismisses the spell with a flick of his wrist, gathers Arrell into the circle of his arms. "You did so well, Tutor," he murmurs, and normally Arrell would bristle at the tone but he's feeling safe and sated and warm and so he stays quiet, lets Alyosha hold him until they both drift off.

 

_ Ephrim/Hadrian _

It's not that Ephrim's a selfish lover by rule -- it's just that Hadrian seems to love it so _much_. Every twitch of Ephrim's hand, every lazy order, every time he smirks and tells Hadrian he's been good gets the paladin harder, more desperate for him.

"Come here," says Ephrim. A flick of his fingers and Hadrian's almost falling over himself to crawl up the bed, naked and flushed down to his collarbones, hair a mess. Not even bothering to raise his head from the mountain of pillows behind him, Ephrim cards a hand through Hadrian's hair, strokes down the line of his cheek to tap two fingers against his bottom lip. "Suck."

Hadrian complies without a moment's hesitation, mouth hot and wet and eager. His eyes fall shut, long lashes on his cheek. Ephrim tsks. "Look at me." Hadrian manages to force his eyes open but they're hazy, half-lidded. He's far deep in that space Ephrim gets him to, the place where he'd do anything Ephrim asked of him without question, and do it gladly. Ephrim smiles, pulls his fingers away and strokes them down Hadrian's throat, down to circle a nipple -- even that small touch has a violent shudder rippling down Hadrian's body. Ephrim hums, pleased. He takes his hand back, lets it drape artfully on the pillows above his head, the perfect image of a prince in leisure. He smiles at the way Hadrian's breath comes quick.

"Suck me," he orders, languorous and low, "and after, if it pleases me, I might let you bring yourself off while I watch." He says it like he's giving Hadrian a gift -- a beatific prince, a generous offer.

And perhaps it is to him, thinks Ephrim, as Hadrian scrambles to obey.

 

_ Samothes/Ephrim _

"My lord," Ephrim gasps, falling to his knees. "My lord, I'm --"

"Shh," Samothes -- the  _real_ Samothes, material and real and shining, golden -- murmurs, kneeling so he's on level with Ephrim, smile creasing the corners of his eyes. It's kind, and it makes Ephrim want to cry, want to fold himself into his god's arms and never leave that warmth.

"I'm sorry, my lord, I'm so --"

"No," Samothes says. He tips Ephrim's chin up, looks him in the eyes. "No, my prince. You did beautifully."

Samothes kisses him then and Ephrim sinks into it with a dry sob, clutching at Samothes' shoulders with trembling hands. Samothes lays him down, runs warm, dry hands over Ephrim's body, whispers sweetly to him.

"You did so well, so good, so perfect for me," Samothes murmurs, running fingers over Ephrim's cunt and Ephrim can't _breathe_ , can't do anything but cling and let the words wash over him. "My perfect prince, so good."

Ephrim shakes apart, peace unfolding in his chest like a blossom, urged on by the praise falling like rain from his lord's lips.

 

_ Echo/Iota Pretense _

Echo -- by virtue of being who they are -- often feels a little bit out of place, a little bit adrift.  With Iota...  with Iota they can laugh and banter on equal footing, they can grin at the grandiloquence of their peers even as they negotiate with it themselves.

They've found time to spar together -- the stitches are useful like that -- and they're well matched, Iota's height and reach and Echo's muscle and agility leading them to a deadlock more often than not.

Iota manages to pin them to the mat, thighs on either side of their hips and her forearm threatening across their throat.  She grins, vicious, and Echo grins back, equally sharp.  A moment, tense and exciting, and then Iota's kissing them.  Her teeth are sharp and her tongue is rough but Echo gives as good as they get, sinking their teeth into Iota's bottom lip and flipping them over in her moment of distraction.

They fuck like it's a continuation of their match, full of teeth and nails and laughing competition.  Iota bites at their throat and distracts them long enough to flip them over again, pinning Echo's wrists to the mat and making sure no one will miss the bruise she leaves on their warm brown skin.  But Echo wriggles out from under them, pins Iota on her stomach and drags furrows down her back, rutting down onto her thigh.  They get each other off messy and rough, laughter and teeth and fiery eyes.

After, they lay next to each other, panting hard.  Iota looks over at them, skin still flushed a faint blue.

"Same time next week?" she asks, knowing full well that "week" is a meaningless word.  They laugh, pulling their sweaty hair back into a ponytail.

"Same time next week."

 

_Adelaide/Hella/Adaire_

Everyone's left the breakfast table by now except the three of them -- Adelaide, regal and tired, sitting straight in her seat; Hella, slouched and glancing nervously between the queen and Adaire; and Adaire herself, fingertips tapping on the wooden table and legs crossed primly.  The three of them haven't been alone together since they got here, and the silence is tense until Adaire's had enough and breaks it.

"So," she says casually, snagging a bread roll and deconstructing it methodically on her plate, "when you said you could see everything in Hella's head."  Adelaide raises an eyebrow.  Hella's eyes dart back and forth.

"Yes?"

"You meant _everything_?"  Adelaide stares her down and Adaire smiles.  It's games within games with the Queen of Pearls, and Adaire plays to win.  Next to her, Hella's visibly sweating.

"I did," Adelaide replies.  There's a smile at the corner of her mouth and her eyes dart over to Hella.  Ah, there.  Now they're on the same wavelength, her and the queen.

"I wonder what you thought of what you saw," Adaire says, maintaining her casual air, uncrossing and crossing her legs under the table.  Adelaide's eyes flash.  Adaire smiles sweetly.  Hella gulps.

Breakfast lies cold, forgotten.


	10. ten

_Ephrim/Fero_

Fero's not _stupid._   He sees how Hadrian stutters around Ephrim, bows his head in deference and rushes to follow even the most banal orders, always addressing him as "my prince" or whatever bullshit he's on.

"You know," says Fero, sidling up to stand next to Ephrim as Hadrian scuttles off on some errand or another, "I don't really get why he wants to suck your dick so bad."  He looks up at Ephrim, waiting for fury or irritation, but Ephrim stays stoic, gazing into the middle distance.

"Maybe I have a really pretty dick," Ephrim deadpans, and Fero stares at him for a long moment before he's laughing so hard his sides hurt.  When he manages to look up again, Ephrim's grinning at him, sharp and wide, and... and he might be weird and kinda horny for god or whatever but Ephrim's undeniably hot, and Fero hasn't gotten fucked in _months_.

"Was that an invitation?" he asks, and Ephrim hums.

"Do you want it to be?"

And that's how Fero finds himself in Ephrim's tent, fucking himself down onto Ephrim's  _extremely_ pretty glass cock, sweaty and warm and laughing.

 

_Tender/Fourteen_

There might not be a pool on The World Without End, but there  _is_ a surprisingly roomy bathtub in the captain's quarters, and it's the first thing she goes for when Fourteen shows her their rooms.

"We have to try this immediately," she demands, and Fourteen just laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that's familiar and unfamiliar at once.

"I don't suppose I'm going to talk you out of this," they say, but Tender's already turned on the tap and started stripping down.  Fourteen sighs, following her lead.  They haven't... they haven't  _talked_ about this thing between them, but there's a spark in Fourteen's eyes as she slides her underwear down her thighs.

Several hazy moments later, Tender sinks into the tub with a sigh, stretching her legs out in front of her and luxuriating in the steam that rises from the surface of the water.  She looks up.  Fourteen's standing there at the edge of the tub, also nude -- their frame thin, small breasts and small hips and lip caught between their teeth while they look at her.  Wordless, she extends a hand and they take it.  Determination settles steely in their eyes and they step into the tub and settle down to straddle Tender's hips.

They're surprisingly light, and Tender's hands come up to their hips unconsciously to steady them.

"Okay?" she asks, and Fourteen replies by leaning in and finally,  _finally_ kissing her, steam rising all around them.  They kiss and kiss and kiss until the water goes cold.

 

_Signet/Tender_

Tender likes to be restrained and Signet likes to be pampered and they find a balance in Tender on her knees, arms lashed together behind her back and Signet's legs over her shoulders and slick all down her chin.

"Tender," Signet sighs, head tilting back against the armchair's plush upholstery.  She's trembling, teeth sunk into her bottom lip.  Tender moans around her, tugging at the silks holding her just to feel the resistance.  She remembers with shivery clarity when Signet had strung her up in Belgarde's silks and taken her apart, piece by little piece, and even now this silken remnant holds her still.

She licks and sucks and tongues at Signet until she doubles over and cards her wickedly long nails down Tender's scalp, down the back of her neck.  She makes the  _prettiest_ sound when she comes.

"Good girl," Signet murmurs, when she finally guides Tender's head away from her.  Tender shivers, hands clenching at the silks.  "Good girl."

 

_Jace/Jamil/Addax_

A sad reality of being Rapid Evening agents is that usually, all any of them have the time or energy or focus for is a sleepy handjob and a kiss goodnight.  But that doesn't mean they don't take advantage of time when it comes.

Jamil's wickedly-high heels click on the floor and the leather harness hugs her hips and stomach and chest.  She  _knows_ she looks good, nails painted a dark plum to match the current shade of her lipstick and hair, pulled up in a high ponytail.  The power is delicious, especially when she steps into view and gets to see the expressions on her boyfriends' faces -- quiet awe from Addax and gasping delight from Jace.

She grins, sharp as the bite of the crop she holds in her hand.

 

_Blake/Adaire_

Her pockets are full of jewels and her limbs are full of adrenaline and the rooftops belong to _them_ \-- their kingdom, their domain.

Once they're far enough away, they collapse in a heap under the stars, tucked in the shadow of a chimney with jewels and pearls spilling across the ground.  Adaire laughs under her sides are sore and Blake laughs with her, high and sweet.  She looks over at them, smiles at their mussed hair and heaving chest.

It seems only natural for Adaire to push herself up and tug Blake onto her lap, their small legs settling on either side of her hips.  They gaze down at her.

"You're magnificent," they breathe, eyes sparkling, and Adaire tugs them down to kiss them hard and exultant.

Blake's fingers are clever and their mouth cleverer and Adaire gasps and giggles and sighs when Blake crawls under her skirts and sucks her off, messy and wet.

The moonlight catches on Blake's hair when they reemerge to kiss her, their lips still slick and tasting of her.  They kiss the night away, right there in the open, with their lifted jewels scattered all around.

 

_Adelaide/Hella_

Adelaide is imposing and regal but her arms are slender and her frame slim, waist tapering and stride lithe.  She isn't built like Hella, hewn of muscle and scarred skin.  It's easy to forget how strong goddesses are.

Her strength cannot be ignored when she tips Hella over her knee and holds her still with a hand on the back of her neck, gripping tight.  Hella writhes as Adelaide turns her ass red and hot, dull pain turned bright in spots -- Adelaide hasn't deigned to remove the heavy rings from her fingers.

Adelaide keeps her there effortlessly, no matter how she struggles, and Hella thrills at being taken by someone stronger than she could ever be.

 

_Hadrian/Rosana/Alyosha_

Hadrian doesn't know how Alyosha manages to maintain the cleverness of his mouth while getting fucked so thoroughly -- when one of them fucks Hadrian, he has trouble doing anything except groaning and shuddering.  But Alyosha keeps his tongue moving the way he knows Hadrian likes, takes him into his throat and hums while Rosana grips his hips and takes him in turn.

Alyosha's hair is damp with sweat and Hadrian reaches down to brush it out of his face.  He looks up at Hadrian, his light eyes hazy, rocking with the impact of each thrust.

 _Beautiful_ , he thinks.


End file.
